The jar rests against it’s ancient ,rotten plank,

It’s lid ,worn out, acted like an old, wrinkly face.

Cracks rise up from the bottom, minute and annoying, features exposing its imperfection.

The glass wear stood strong in it’s carefully selected cylindrical shape.

Labels ,countless, were splattered across it’s surface.

The faint scent of pickles filled it’s insides with a strange warmth.

The cupboard awaits a dear friend to free the jar trapped inside.